Starting Points
by kodiakkemaxx
Summary: "Nothing remains of her here except his memories. Even her scent has been wiped away under antiseptic cleaning solution. She's been redacted." Author's Note: Characters are not mine; I'm just borrowing them. Takes place right after Episode 5. I just couldn't get this scenario out of my head; figured I'd write it down before the storyline moved on. Thank you for the feedback!


Safe houses are places to hide out. The Bureau couldn't begrudge him one night, when he'd given them so many. Besides, this one hadn't been that safe anyway, which is why it's empty now.

He walks inside, drops the key on the table. He'll return it tomorrow, makes a mental note to finally turn it back in to the facilities coordinator on the third floor. But tonight, this not-so-safe-house is better than his car, and it's empty. There's no way he's going back to his place, or to Sarah's. There's only one place he thought about going, wanted to go, had a momentary urge, almost turned his car off the exit and – his hands clenched on the wheel. _No_. So not going there. She needs him to be strong, especially after today. She's fighting too much; this one is his turn. His alone.

There's a couch, tv. _Everything you need_. The fridge has been cleaned, the trash taken out. Bathroom is wiped down. Sheets are clean; cheap and stiff under a thin blanket. He paces, checking windows and doors, his eyes searching for any sign, any trace, of … something. Nothing remains of her here except his memories. Even her scent has been wiped away under antiseptic cleaning solution. She's been redacted.

But she's safe, in her new place. He checked it out himself, had to make sure. Had to see for himself that he wasn't making it harder for her, that she was going to be okay before he left her alone there. Well, alone inside, with a security team on the perimeter.

There's no such team here, and he doesn't need them. He'd welcome an intrusion, jump at the chance to use his body, his fists, and just beat the crap out of something. Someone. He has a few candidates he'd like to volunteer: Carter. His dad. That was a good start.

He should have picked up beers on the way, but he's too tired to go back out. Probably better anyway. Tomorrow's another day, and his days are getting full. Not only hundreds of tattoos, missing memories, but now there's the CIA in the picture. He's gotta be on his game.

The couch isn't that comfortable, and he digs his phone and gun out of their respective holsters and sets them carefully on the coffee table. His phone's LED flashes. It's been flashing since he left; Sarah calling and texting. He's silenced it; he doesn't want to hear any more from her tonight. She's crossed a line and she knows it, but she keeps pushing. She's his sister. They do that kind of thing. Even Taylor did it, and she sure as hell wasn't his sister.

A sudden, gaping emotional hole – and the anger surges back in, the wave making him physically shudder. He tastes bile in the back of his throat. Sarah shouldn't have invited him. Not into Kurt's own house. It wasn't all okay. Jane's return – Taylor's return – didn't mean that they were suddenly _all good_ , that the past was wiped away.

" _If Jane Doe is Taylor Shaw, then Dad is innocent."_ Sarah saw it as a simple line, black or white. Kurt lived in a world of grey, and he couldn't – he just couldn't. Still too many questions, too many years lost. She had been taken, and he can't forget, or forgive. Until Jane got her memory back, told Kurt what happened, it still. Wasn't. Okay.

" _It wasn't your fault."_

" _I've heard that my whole life."_

" _But you haven't heard it from me. It wasn't your fault."_

Something had cut loose. A crack started in the ice around him, and heat from her hand where she covered his, sandwiched above her heart. No. The cracks started when he saw the scar, that first night when he sipped his scotch, stared at the city skyline, and dared to consider if maybe, just maybe, she was Taylor. Told himself he was stupid, tired, that he'd done this before. Accepted he would do it again, every time until the last time, when he either found her or … he found her.

He'd already been cracking; that gesture tonight was more like a break-in. The only person ever inside that place before was Taylor Shaw. She _belonged_. Others had tried: to sneak in, to assault, to move in. But the space was already reserved. Now she was back. And he couldn't forgive his father for all the years – all the things – they'd missed. So it wasn't okay. Not until she knew, and he knew.

" _I see the way you look at me, and I don't know how to be this person you lost."_

She is his Taylor. He _feels_ it. She fits: age, eyes, scar, attitude … everything. Except the name. He still calls her Jane. Because … she's not there yet, she doesn't own her own self. She's here, but Taylor is still missing.

That damn tooth. As nagging as that flashing red LED, as insistent. He can't deny the fact, but he can deny the obvious conclusion. She is Taylor, and as soon as she remembers, she'll take her name back. She's already taken her place.

" _You—you're my starting point."_

"I'm here, Jane," he mumbles, lays his head back on the couch. "I'm always here with you."

* * *

Morning comes all too soon, and it's only a little bit better than sleeping in the SUV. At some point he toppled into the couch, and the thin cushions didn't stop the springs from digging into his back and side. He has a crick in his neck and the white residue of drool on his lips. His clothing is rumpled and on its way past fragrant. Frankly, he's well into stink.

 _You've looked better, Weller._

He drops by his place before he goes in; it's blessedly empty. He changes into clean clothes and leaves.

The keys are dropped off, forms countersigned, and he takes his copy while the phone rings behind the desk. Waving at the facilities coordinator, he turns around to leave when the coordinator's voice rises.

" _Again_? Are you fucking kidding me?"

Instinct makes him stop. Instinct, and the fear that freezes his legs, his lungs. He can't move.

"Anyone hurt? Mmmmm. That's good." The coordinator is scribbling notes. "Okay, I'll be right over to check it out and close it. I swear to God, we're going to have to dump all of these. It's a fucking joke now." The desk phone clatters down.

Kurt swallows, trying to thaw the ice in his throat. "What was that? Didn't sound good." His voice is low, alien.

The coordinator – not an agent, but a civilian specialist – is grabbing her coat and purse off a hook as she gets to her feet. "Another safe house compromised. That's the second one this week. I've never had this happen." She ducks around him – he still can't move. "Excuse me, I really gotta run."

When he can finally move – breaths, moments later – he runs too.

* * *

The ops room is chaos. They all turn as he bursts in, all the familiar faces. Except one. The one he most needs to see right now.

There's a hubbub of noise. "Kurt!" Mayfair's voice pierces the din. "Why didn't you answer your phone?"

The fucking LED.

"Where is she?" He's still searching the room but he knows she's gone. Their eyes tell him. Only the cold in his bones keeps him upright, and keeps his voice from screaming. "What happened? What have we got?"

"She's gone. The security team entered and searched this morning when they she didn't come out on time. They knocked and got no response." She takes a breath, and he feels it as a stab to his gut. "There were signs of a struggle."

"Blood?"

She nodded. "Patterson is testing it now."

It was hers. He already knew. She had no reason to leave. Nowhere to go. She wouldn't have gone without a struggle.

Not like last time.

He swallows past the ice in his throat, but it comes out in his voice. "No one on the security team heard or saw anything? _Again_?" Reade winces, but Kurt can't stop now. "Zapata, pull all the footage of any security camera in the neighbourhood."

"Already on it."

Reade clears his throat. "We're pulling in video footage, any 911 calls in the neighbourhood, everything we can. Analysts are starting to go over it now. We've got a team reviewing everything as it comes in."

"I want to know if the security detail checked in on time each time. I want you to pull their backgrounds. Find out if anything looks wrong. And I want a copy of the raw data available to me."

"Got it."

"Weller." Mayfair jerks her head. "My office."

He doesn't want to go, doesn't want to leave the ops board, but he has to do _something_. So going to her office is the thing he can do _right now_ , and whatever she's got to say, she wants to do it for his ears only.

As soon as the door is closed behind him, he's pacing. He can't stop himself, and she doesn't ask him to, but settles down behind her desk, watching him carefully. "I called Deputy Carter as soon as I heard. It wasn't them."

He turns to look at her, stops in mid-tracks. "They also said they didn't work on American soil."

"It wasn't them, Kurt."

"How can you know? How can you trust him?"

"I don't. But I know when he's angry. And he took my call. He thinks she's slipped through his fingers. So he doesn't have her."

This should feel better to him, this should be good news, but she's no closer to coming home.

"Kurt. You got this?"

"Yeah."

"I'm serious, Kurt. This isn't just about you."

He swings around to growl at her. "It's never been just me. It's always been … her. You're just finally seeing it." He takes a deep breath. "You're not taking me off this."

He holds her gaze until she nods. "Not right now."

"Not until she's back. I'll take all the time off you want, all the leave. I'll talk to your people. When Taylor's back."

"Can you think of any other reason someone might take her?"

The fucking LED. He sighs, stops. Straightens, turns to look at his boss. "My dad was in town last night."

Now it's her turn to freeze. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Why was he here? Does he – know about her?"

"My sister called him. He knew."

"Does he have an alibi?"

Bitterness floods his mouth, and he's suddenly 10 again, helpless and alone. He straightens, breathes, reminds himself that he's not as helpless as … as the last time. "Even if he does, check it twice."

* * *

The first time she was taken, she was gone for twenty-five years. He can't wait that long again. She's out there, somewhere.

 _I should never have let them take you._

There is no secret hiding spot here that he can check. There is only the office, the ops room, and his empty house. His work triangle. He shuts out Sarah, never returns her calls or texts, deletes the voicemails without listening. He doesn't want to hear apologies or sympathies. The blinking LED is a constant in his life, like a heartbeat. His dad's alibi checks out, even when he double and triple checks it, but he can't forget that she disappears the same night that man is in town.

" _If your coming back has taught me one thing, it's to never give up hope."_

His dad returns home. The CIA keeps sniffing around, but it's obvious they don't have her. The days keep turning, and he wakes up, breathes, eats, looks at data. Rinse and repeat. There are no leads. No strange noises in the night, no weird 911 calls, no nosy neighbours who heard something. He goes through everything. Again. And again. Zapata slinks around the office; she's even trying to type softly. Reade seems to be working out his issues at the gym.

She is his starting point. Just like he is hers. So he starts over. And over. And over again.

 _I'm coming, Taylor. Just keep breathing._

And fifty-seven days later, the phone call at two am. The police had just notified the FBI. About a bag found in Times Square.

* * *

He rushes down to the ops room. It's blazing with lights, crawling with people. Patterson is there, and Dr. Borden. Mayfair tries to intercept him, but he shoulders straight to the doc's side.

"She's physically okay," Borden starts immediately." Some signs of restraints on her wrists and ankles. Minor bruising elsewhere."

This is a bad dream. He's re-living it again.

"She's been dosed again too." Borden takes a deep breath. "And some of the tattoos have been altered."

"With that stuff?" Mayfair puts a hand on his arm, and Kurt realizes his hand is raised up. He takes a deep breath. "She's been wiped … again?"

"We must assume, given the evidence, that she was taken by the same person or people who dropped her off the first time."

"So no memories."

Borden shakes his head slowly. "Her system is completely flooded – again. She's completely amnesiac. We're putting her through the same test protocols as last time-" And he winces and he says it, aware of how that sounds. "But I'm positive."

The look in their eyes is sympathy, Kurt realizes. He turns away, threads through them to the examination rooms. His steps are steady, even. Inexorable.

He hears her as he comes to the door. Her voice is jagged, angry, scared. Her patience has run out faster this time. Maybe, he tells himself, maybe even through all the drugs, her brain knows she's done this before.

"I want to speak to someone in charge."

He steps into the room and jerks his head at the polygrapher, who doesn't need any more prompting. And then he finally looks at her. He drinks her in, knees shaking, so hard that he clutches the doorknob for support. She's here.

She stares at Kurt, not even looking at the guy packing up equipment, slinking out the door. She is scared, shaking, but he sees defiance, anger.

There is no recognition in her.

His lungs hurt, but he pushes his words through the pain, pulls himself back. "I'm K- - I'm Special Agent Kurt Weller." He walks to the metal table, sits down. "Do you recognize me?" It hurts to ask, to wait for her answer. He sees her face every night in his dreams, every day in the photos. He has so many photos of her, and she looks scared and lost in every one. His only souvenirs of her adult self besides the invisible brand above his heart.

"W-why would y-you be familiar?"

"I know who you are. And you – you know me." He leans forward, and she doesn't lean back. Small steps, he cautions himself, but his breathing is coming faster and his palms itch. He wants to grab her before she is taken again. "My name, Kurt Weller, is tattooed across your back." He reaches across the metal table carefully, touches her. His hand is trembling, like she's trembling and shivering, alone. He slowly, so so slowly, reaches across the space between them. She flinches before he touches her, but doesn't move away. His hand slides over hers, pulls it carefully back towards him. Her eyes are clouded, but she allows it, her muscles giving only the merest resistance. He folds her hand open above his heart, letting her feel the pounding. And now they are not alone, but together. "Please," he says. "Try. Something – something may come back to you."

They share a few tense breaths, both of them trembling. His eyes search hers, hoping, waiting … but there's nothing. No flicker of recognition. No emotion.

"Anything?" His voice cracks. It's better than pleading. Begging.

She pulls back, cradles her hand against her own chest. As though she's been burned. No, he corrects himself, she's been _flayed_ – of everything's she gained. The knowledge, the relationships, the scant few weeks of a past. She's been scraped back to nothing but skin. And even that was taken from her.

But she remembered last time. And she would remember again.

She's trembling, and stares up at him desperately, her entire body shaking. "So w-who are you? To me, I mean."

 _Everything_. "I'm … I'm your friend, Jane. That's the most important part right now. I'm your friend and I won't let anything happen to you." _Again. Not again. Not_ ever _again._


End file.
